The Kingfisher Wreck | Personal Log 11.28.3308
28 Nov 2022Mark Zero
-//Log Entry Start[Date: 11.28.3308]
[Location: Escobar Platform, Aditjana]
I just had to see it for myself. Like an idiot.
I'd been sitting in Hurston Ring at the bar when Galnet broke the news that all contact had been lost with the Kingfisher, and the Pilot's Federation had rescinded the permit lock on Hyades Sector YO-Q b5-1. I'd been tinkering recently with a new Diamondback, and I don't know if it was the glass of Indi Bourbon or some kind of instinct, but I immediately got this stupid need in my head to get out there as fast as possible.
Fifteen minutes later, I'd thrown myself a couple hundred light years away from where I should've still had my ass on a bar stool, nursing a buzz instead of the fear gnawing at my gut. I picked up the Kingfisher's signal about a minute after dropping out of witch space into supercruise, and it wasn't alone. Aside from the worrying number of signal sources in the system, there was one big one messing with the sensors every time I tried to focus in on it. I gave up and disengaged the FSS only to immediately feel like a terrified idiot.
So for anybody who hasn't had the curiosity to get close to one of these Rogue Signal Sources? Imagine you're looking at another galaxy. A green spiraling galaxy, shining like a star from the center. Now imagine the damn thing is in system with you and moving at superluminal speeds you can't hope to catch even with a modified A-rated FSD. Oh and also it's messing up your sensors every time you try to take a look at it long range with the FSS. All you get is a green pixellated blur and a whole lotta ominous growling coming outta space.
Maybe the bourbon helped, I don't know, but I made it to the Kingfisher. The Thargoid Advocacy Project's pride and joy had made about as much contact as I'd expected it to have with "Taranis"; a brand new megaship reduced to a caustic wreck floating in a green cloud. Other Commanders were carefully flitting around the wreck, rescuing the lucky few escape pods they could, or just salvaging bits off the ship. I focused on the ship log uplinks. These idealists had paid the ultimate price, I wanted to at least get their story out there somehow.
I think the saddest part of the logs was that the folks on board this ship truly believed in the work they were doing. They absolutely believed that if they could just send the right combination of signal frequencies, the Thargoids would stop and talk to them. It hurt more than I thought it would to hear it dawn on them that the whole thing wasn't just a mistake, but that 3,000 idealistic scientists and activists had essentially committed suicide to give peace a chance.
The useful info in the logs is threefold; The Rogue Signal Sources are absolutely Thargoid (it sent Interceptors to destroy them), it is absolutely hostile, and the signal they picked up from observing it is "bigger than any man-made station".
By this point, I had a knot in the pit of my stomach that was making it hard to keep the ship steady. I've flown a couple exploration vessels, and they have this comfortable slowness and size to them that makes them relaxing to fly. But the Diamondback is small, and quick. "A cockpit with engines". Small, and vulnerable. And that's when the COVAS cut in over my second try at listening to the Kingfisher logs.
"Multiple Frame Shift anomalies detected."
Short range comms from the other ships in the area immediately went full panic, as greenish black clouds started tearing open around the Kingfisher. They'd come back. Whether it was to finish the job, or as a reaction to all of us being there, I don't know. But we weren't a combat fleet, most of these ships were equipped for salvage or rescue operations. And I was sitting in a very small Diamondback, with lightweight bulkheads, no hull reinforcement, and no weapons. And the gnawing, claustrophobic suffocation of a traumatic fear response. I was right there in HIP 22460 again in a split second, but in a ship I'd made to be helpless.
I don't remember engaging the FSD, or plotting the course back to Arnais. I only half-remember the last two jumps, and the sound of the ATC aboard the Amaurot's Legacy clearing me to a landing pad. I remember the guards and crew awkwardly getting out of my way as I stormed up to my office and locked the door, and I remember finally puking into a vac pac and sealing it. I remember the dizziness and the headache. And then I remember Kimber overriding the door lock to check on me.
A slow intake of water and a few long, deep breaths later, I was able to talk about the whole thing and hand off the logs to Kimber. And she was able to let me know that a message had been left for me by my friend Gaz. Seemed the Emporium had gotten pulled into a war in a backwater system with a group of Imperial upstarts who'd rejected diplomatic overtures, and they'd put out a call for any pilot able to bring guns to their side of the fight.
I'll post another log later about that, because that whole situation deserves its own write-up.
But man... eight signals, and each one's bigger than a station. Whatever's coming to answer the Proteus Wave? I don't think we're ready to deal with it.
-//Log Entry End